


Diamonds in his Pockets

by hatrickane (dandelionwhiskey)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Misunderstandings, Modern Era, Self-Discovery, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-01-23 05:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12499468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionwhiskey/pseuds/hatrickane
Summary: Patrick has always known he'd have to get married one day, for the good of the kingdom and all. He just didn't know he'd have to marry adude.He supposes he'll just have to get used to it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twelfthofnever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twelfthofnever/gifts).



> This is a royalty AU written by someone who doesn't write royalty AUs and beta'd by someone who doesn't read royalty AUs. Major thanks to [kaneoodle](http://kaneoodle.tumblr.com) for her fantastic beta skills. 
> 
> For [Katie](http://toewsharp.tumblr.com), who runs one of my favorite blogs ever.

“Stop pouting, Patrick,” his mother says, pinching his ear. Patrick shuffles back up in his chair, sitting up as straight as he can, trying not to look as miserable as he feels. “This is a part of your duty.”

“Fuck duty,” Patrick grumbles. The withering look his mother shoots his way instantly triggers his guilt, so he crosses his arms low across his stomach and mumbles an apology. 

It’s not that he didn’t know this was coming. For the last few years, his parents had been dangling potential suitors in front of him and actually asking his opinion -- valuing his input. That seems to have gone out the window at this point.  _ Too picky _ , they’d said,  _ if you can’t decide then we’ll decide for you _ . 

“But why does it have to be a guy?” Patrick complains for the hundredth time. His Queen mother, in all her poised class, rolls her eyes. “Why can’t Jess marry him?”

“For the last time, Patrick, if you’d chosen someone on your own a year ago then we wouldn’t be in this position. And you know your sisters were betrothed a long time ago.” She gently pats his forearm. “Don’t worry, baby. You’ll learn how to work together.” 

Patrick sighs. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “He seems okay, anyway.”

“That’s the spirit,” she says. 

The door clicks open, then, and Patrick slaps on the well-practiced smile he reserves for moments he couldn’t possibly give less of a shit about. There’s a camera popping somewhere behind the line of politicians that file in, and Patrick knows he has to make this count.

He stands up, straightens out his jacket, and begins his handshake line. Some of the people he recognizes - high level royalty from his own region and neighboring kingdoms. Security personnel stand stoically on either side of the doorway, eyes shielded by reflective sunglasses. Patrick misses his own detail; Sharpy would get a kick out of this dog-and-pony show.

His mother and the duke exchange pleasantries, but Patrick is just looking at the door. He’s seen a picture of the young Lord and read a brief dossier, but he’s never met the guy in real life.

“Prince Kane,” says the Duke, bowing slightly toward Patrick. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” says Pat, extending his hand. He’s never been totally on board with all the traditions, but, hell, it’s 2017. Sometimes he can’t even keep all the titles straight. With his mother side-eyeing him, though, he decides to give in to the formality. “I’m looking forward to uniting our efforts.” 

The Duke beams. Patrick has always liked him during their brief meetings in the past. He hopes he’s passed his kind eyes down to his son. 

“The honor is all ours,” the Duke says. “Now, I suppose it’s time for you and Jonathan to finally meet.”

Soft clicks fill the room as the cameras go nuts, certain to catch every facet of Patrick’s expression.  He hopes he’s keeping his smile steady enough. The Duke signals to the security team, and one of them nods to someone standing outside the door. Patrick realizes that he’s actually nervous, sweat prickling up the back of his neck and making him shiver.

After a moment, Jonathan walks in. The first thing Patrick notices is how tall he is, broad across the chest but lean and wearing the hell out of his suit. His brown hair looks a little long, like he’s due for a cut, but it curls up around his forehead and makes him look boyish. Sweet. 

His expression is relaxed – much more so than Patrick’s probably is – an easy crooked smile on his lips as he approaches Patrick and his mother. 

Patrick swallows.

Jonathan bows deeply to the queen, all proper and perfect form.hen he straightens up, he doesn’t even need to adjust his suit. He’s fluid and put-together and Patrick is hyperaware of how he must look in comparison.

“Lord Toews,” says his mother, “so nice to meet you. If your father is any reflection of you, we’re delighted to have you join our family.”

“The pleasure is ours, Queen Kane,” he says, and his voice is so much deeper than Patrick expected. Jonathan turns to Patrick, and it’s like all the words in the English language have suddenly been obliterated from Patrick’s mind. He tries to smile and desperately hopes the cameras aren’t catching how terrified he suddenly is. 

Jonathan bows, and Patrick catches a hint of his cologne. It’s… nice. “Hello,” Patrick says, his voice small and unconfident. He tries not to clench his fists in frustration. 

“Hello,” Jonathan replies, amused. He extends his hand. “I’m looking forward to getting to know each other.”

“Me, too,” Pat says weakly. He takes Jonathan’s hand and shakes it once, probably too hard, but Jonathan doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he tugs Patrick forward into a one-armed hug, their clenched hands caught between their bodies. 

“I know this is weird for you,” Jonathan mumbles in his ear, “but don’t worry, we’ve got this.” 

Patrick is dazed when Jonathan pulls back and turns them both toward the cameras for their photo op. The cameras flash and pop and Patrick has never wanted  to get out of that room as much as he does now.

///

Prince Kane was a media darling when he was a child. He would go on talk shows, in all his wise four years, and tell an audience of millions exactly how he’d one day run the country. His cherubic curls and dimples made him an ideal front page star. 

He didn’t realize, of course, that one day he’d actually have to start working. When he came of age at sixteen, he was hit with the truth that if anything happened to his parents, he’d become one of the most powerful people in the world. He reacted to this news.... poorly. 

The media ate up his teenage rebellion, plastering his face over headlines questioning whether or not he’d be fit to rule if he couldn’t adhere to the standards expected of him. Patrick wasn’t averse to being a politician, he simply preferred sneaking away from his security detail to go to a skate park or steal bottles of champagne from charity events. 

His parents addressed this by assigning Patrick Sharp to his security detail. He was closer to Patrick’s age, but old enough to assume some sort of authority over him. When Patrick tried to bark orders at him, Sharp threw it right back in Patrick’s face -- usually with a clever joke at his expense. It was infuriating, and Patrick loved him for it.

Sharpy taught him how to ice skate and managed to convince the King and Queen to let them go to a rink a few times a week. With skating to channel his energy into, Patrick started to fall back in line when he needed to. And, by the time he was twenty, Patrick was as skilled on the ice as he was at press conferences. 

He’s kind of over the press conferences. So, it makes sense that he’ll have to do more in the next few months than he ever has. 

////

Patrick doesn’t see Jonathan again for a couple of more days, but he sure signs a lot of paperwork with his name on it. They’re going to have a royal wedding, something huge and and unforgettable and extravagant, but getting all the boring logistics out of the way first is supposed to allow Patrick to sit back and enjoy his big day.

He doesn’t feel much like enjoying anything. 

Jonathan doesn’t seem that bad, but Patrick can’t get those last words out of his ear. Jonathan had seen right through his mask and tried to offer comfort to a total stranger. Patrick isn’t sure he would do the same thing if the roles were reversed. 

His phone vibrates on his desk, interrupting his thoughts. It’s a text from an unknown number. Patrick squints and opens the message, thrilled to get a break from the tedium of signing his name. 

> **Unknown Number**
> 
> _ It’s Jonny. We should hang out. Busy tonight? _

Patrick stares at the message. It never occurred to him to steal Jonathan’s phone number off the paperwork and call him. 

> **Patrick Kane**
> 
> _ Yeah, man, that’s sounds good. I can move some stuff around. _

He quickly saves Jonathan’s - Jonny’s - number and fiddles with his phone until he gets a text back.

> **Jonny Toews**
> 
> _ Great. Can you meet me for dinner around 8pm? _
> 
> **_Patrick Kane_ **
> 
> _ Sure, man. Just tell me where. _
> 
> **Jonny Toews**
> 
> _ It’s a date. I’ll send the information to your detail. _

Patrick stares at that word. Date. It’s not a date, obviously, they’re just hanging out so they can get to know each other. Right.

////

Jonny meets Patrick outside some fancy steakhouse. Patrick gets a pang in his chest as he’s greeted with a handshake, Jonny’s gentle smile just reminding him of the soft words he’d murmured to Patrick the a few days before. He holds the door open for Patrick, talks to the host to get them a solid table, and even puts in Patrick’s drink order. It’s a little overwhelming.

“I read that you’re interested in ice skating,” Jonny confesses later, spearing a beet with his salad fork. “What sparked that?”

Patrick laughs and grabs a fried goat cheese fritter. He pops it in his mouth to avoid answering immediately, then decides to just go for it. “That guy over there,” he says, pointing at the nearby table where Sharpy is sitting. He’s watching them with an amused smile and Patrick resists the urge to roll his eyes. “They hired him to straighten me out after, well, you know.”

Jonny nods empathetically. 

“He took me to the rink,” Patrick continues, “made me do drills. Bastard was lucky I actually liked it.” 

Sharpy flips Patrick off under the table, away from the prying eyes of the press. Patrick ignores him. 

“Any good?” Jonny asks into his wine glass. He keeps his eyes locked with Patrick’s, like he’s actually interested in the answer -- like this is something other than just two guys having dinner. Patrick shrugs. 

“I guess,” he says. “Why? You skate?”

Jonny shakes his head and wipes his mouth with his napkin. Patrick swirls his red wine in his glass. “Nope,” Jonny says. “I know how, I guess,” he goes on, “but I haven’t done it in awhile. More into yoga.” 

Patrick must make a horrible face, because Jonny smirks and puts his hands up defensively. “No, no,” Pat says, “it’s cool. I mean, whatever you like to do, right?”

“Your approval means everything,” Jonny deadpans. Patrick laughs, and it’s good. He’s almost convinced that they can pull this union off if they can manage to become friends. 

Patrick learns a little more about Jonny over dinner, like how he has a dog and drinks absolutely disgusting sounding smoothies. He believes in environmental reform and has spearheaded many initiatives that Patrick has heard of but still doesn’t totally understand. He’s ambitious and level-headed and probably the opposite of what people think of Patrick. 

But then there’s the other side of it all, the part that Patrick is doing his damndest to ignore. The part where Jonny’s smiles linger and how he occasionally reaches across the table to gently touch the back of Patrick’s hand, or his forearm, or his knee. The part where people are not-so-covertly snapping pictures of them, and how they’ll end up on the covers of the tabloids tomorrow. 

That’s the part that keeps making Patrick’s stomach squirm. He doesn’t even finish his filet mignon, despite Jonny’s confusion. 

“Not hungry?” He asks at one point, frowning down at Patrick’s nearly full plate. 

“Oh, no, I-” Patrick starts, shrugs a shoulder, looks down at his steak. “I guess I’m just a little…”

“You don’t have to be nervous,” Jonny interrupts. His voice is all empathy and understanding and Patrick really wants to sink back into his chair. Affection shines in Jonny’s eyes, something that feels undeserved and overpowering. 

Patrick clears his throat and motions to the waiter to bring them more alcohol. Maybe if he gets too drunk and pukes on the table, Jonny will stop looking at him like he hung the damn moon. “Nah, don’t worry about it,” Patrick says, attempting to wave his own anxiety away. “It’s cool. So, climate change?”

///

By the end of the night, Patrick is tipsy and happy, enjoying the way Jonny seems to get his jokes and listen to his admittedly complicated theories on the pointlessness of golf. Before he realizes it, their drinks are empty and their plates are clean and Sharpy is looking pointedly at his watch. 

“Guess it’s time to go,” Patrick says with an apologetic shrug. Jonny furrows his brow. 

“We haven’t paid yet,” he says, looking over his shoulder for the waiter, his hand already going for the wallet in his suit jacket. Patrick actually laughs. 

“No, Jonny - no, we don’t have to pay,” he says. “One of the perks, I guess.”

Jonny looks flabbergasted, even a little disapproving, but Patrick’s already up and out of his chair. Patrick probably isn’t supposed to notice the way Jonny furtively throws some cash down on the table, but he does, and it makes his ears go hot.

Outside, it’s cool but pleasant and Patrick suddenly realizes he may be a little more drunk than he’d first thought. His body is buzzing and warm in the evening air and he almost doesn’t notice the way Jonny moves into his personal space once they get to the limo. Sharpy, the bastard, does nothing to prevent this from happening. 

He’s just there, suddenly - there in front of Patrick with his crooked smile and his soft brown eyes. Patrick lets him touch his upper arm, lets him squeeze it softly, and it’s only then that he notices the paparazzi snapping photos across the street. 

Jonny slides his fingers over Patrick’s lower back, gently pressing him forward until his hips are just barely brushing up against Jonny’s. “Uh,” Patrick says intelligently as his hands land on Jonny’s shoulders. He’s too close, so close he might be able to feel the way Patrick’s heart is pounding. 

“This was good,” Jonny says softly, his chest rumbling against Patrick’s. “This marriage might work out after all.”

He starts to lean in, eyes falling shut, when Patrick squeezes Jonny’s shoulders and ducks his head. “I can’t,” he says quietly. The cameras around them continue to click away, and Patrick wishes he could slap a grin on, but he can’t muster it. 

“Sorry,” Jonny says, pulling back and offering a guilty smile. “I didn’t mean to move too fast, I just-” 

“I’m not gay,” Patrick says through gritted teeth.

“Oh,” says Jonny, his smile slipping for the first time. He takes his arm off Patrick’s waist and takes a tentative step backwards. “All right.” His brow furrows as he tries to suss through Patrick’s confession, which makes Patrick’s heart ache. 

“I’m sorry, Jonny,” Patrick offers weakly. He can almost feel his half-finished steak dinner coming back up. 

“So this,” Jonny says, gesturing between himself and Patrick, “it’s just politics, huh?”

Patrick nods and Jonny huffs out a breath, shoving his hands in his pockets. He looks so disappointed. Patrick wants to hate him for it, just a little, as the guilt settles heavily in his stomach. Jonny had actually been excited about being with him and now Patrick can’t even manage a fucking hug. 

“Look, uh, I’ll just go,” Jonny says. The cameras continue to click in the distance. 

“We gotta - Jesus, man, I’m sorry - but we gotta…” Patrick tilts his head toward the paparazzi. 

Patrick hasn’t known Jonny long, but the way he straightens up and grins, reaching out to squeeze Patrick’s shoulder, doesn’t feel right. “Got it,” he says. “Smiles for the camera.” 

They shake hands and Patrick miserably waves goodbye while Jonny gets ushered into his town car. One of the security guys looks over his shoulder at Patrick and glares at him with such vitriol that Pat actually has to take a step back.

“Dude,” Sharpy says right in his ear. “I think you screwed that one up.”

“Shut up,” Patrick mutters, tugging on his suit jacket to straighten it.

“I’m serious. They hate you, man.”

“That’s an order,” Patrick says more firmly. 

“Pathetic,” Sharpy says, and gently steers Patrick toward his limousine.

///

The press goes nuts. 

Patrick turned off mentions of his name a long time ago, but he still can’t avoid the headlines with Jonny. Curiously, he looks at some of the pictures they took. He kind of wishes he hadn’t.

Patrick is all pink-cheeked and wide-eyed and Jonny looks soft, affectionate, masculine. Patrick wants to hide under his bed all day. The headlines say things like, ‘love-struck,’ like ‘a dream come true,’ like ‘is this what Prince Kane needs to finally settle down?’

The thing is, Patrick  _ has _ settled down, especially in the last few years, but he feels like he’ll never be able to escape the follies of his teenage years. So, he stole a car or whatever. He was sixteen. He doesn’t even own a car anymore. 

So, he had a string of one night stands. He was a kid, he didn’t realize the internet would be tracking his every move. So, he got a little too drunk a few too many times. Who didn’t, from time to time? Patrick didn’t ask to have the eyes of the world on him throughout his adolescence. 

But now, Lord Toews is here to save him from his wicked ways.

Patrick spends a little too long in the shower, probably, his skin redfrom the heat and the steam fogging up his eyesight. 

“Time to get out, little Prince,” Sharpy shouts from the other side of the door. “Don’t make me come in there.”

Patrick snorts. “You wish. You know you’d like an eyeful of this.” 

The gagging noises he gets in response are not amusing. He sighs and turns the water off, stepping into the frigid air and wrapping himself up in a fluffy towel. His mirror is too fogged up for him to see his own reflection, for which he is grateful. 

“You decent?” Sharpy asks, and Patrick grunts his affirmation while reaching for his toothpaste. The door swings open and Sharpy immediately starts waving his hand in front of his face. “Jesus, kid, were you trying to boil yourself alive?”

“Yes,” Patrick says petulantly around his toothbrush. Sharpy rolls his eyes. 

“Stop being a baby, the world isn’t coming to an end, Toews seems all right.”

Patrick bristles. “You’ve been reading the articles, huh?”

“Duh,” Sharpy says, pulling out his phone to scroll through the article he’d apparently saved. Patrick spits in the sink. “‘Prince Kane swoons as sexy date, Toews, leans in for a kiss.’” He pauses. “Did you swoon, Patrick?”

“I’m going to kill you,” Patrick grumbles. 

“Maybe you would have swooned if you’d actually let him kiss you,” Sharpy says thoughtfully. Patrick’s head starts to ache and he really, really wants to whip Sharpy with his wet towel.

“I’m not gay.”

“You’ll have to kiss him someday,” Sharpy says pointedly. “When you get married. Better not cringe for the photo ops.” 

“Stop trying to pimp me out,” Patrick says, then takes a swig of mouthwash to gargle. Sharpy probably means well, but all he’s doing is just making Patrick’s skin crawl. He spits out the mouthwash and rubs his eye with the heel of his hand, turning toward Sharpy. “What’s up for today?”

“Couple press conferences, summit meeting, another meeting with Duke Toews to work out the wedding details-”

“Will Jonny be there?” Patrick asks.

Sharpy stares at him for a moment. “Uh, yeah, probably. It’s his wedding too.”

“Great,” Patrick murmurs.

“Get dressed, you toddler,” Sharpy says, turning to leave the bathroom.

“You’re fired,” Patrick shouts after him.

“Fourth time this month,” Sharpy calls back, “must be a record.”

///

Patrick chugs his waterbottle as they ride the elevator up to the meeting room. The press conferences had been a nightmare, all questions about Jonny and the wedding and nothing of any real substance. Patrick dodged them as well as he could, hinting that more details would be coming out soon. The press ate it up.

The elevator doors slide open and Jonny’s just there, on the other side, his suit fitted perfectly and his hair elegantly disheveled. He’s chatting with some dignitary and Patrick isn’t sure if he’s allowed to approach them. Sharpy shoves him. 

He stumbles forward and desperately struggles to regain his balance, but Jonny instantly throws his arms out to catch him. “Whoa,” he says, then pulls his hands back quickly. His eyes linger on the empty bottle in Patrick’s hand. 

“I’m going to recycle, it,” Patrick says quickly. 

Jonny looks confused for a moment before his face slides into neutrality and he gives Patrick a traditional bow. Pat blinks at him. “Prince Kane,” he says evenly. “Good to see you again.”

“Uh, yeah,” Patrick says, brushing his hands down his suit. “You too, Lord Toews.” 

It’s all stilted and official and so not the Jonny he’d gotten to know the night before. He swallows, embarrassed, and takes a step back. Maybe Jonny isn’t taking everything so well after all. 

“Should we go in, then?” Jonny says, politely opening the big doors for Patrick and gesturing inside. 

It’s a huge room, a thick, wooden table in the middle surrounded by uncomfortable-looking chairs. It’s antiquated and stiff and Patrick immediately wants to run. He’s ushered to a seat, though, next to where his mother and father sit at the head of the table. They smile so widely at him that Patrick doesn’t think they’ve ever been more proud. 

Jonny and his family sit on the other side. The giant oak table between them does nothing to assuage Patrick’s guilt. If anything, it only separates them further. He barely listens to the Duke and his parents work out whatever deal they want - something about funding Jonny’s environmental endeavors and, whatever. If it’ll wipe that civil look off of Jonny’s face he’ll do almost anything. 

He wonders if he’s lost any chance of ever being Jonny’s friend.

“What do you think, Patrick?” He snaps to attention, looking over at his smiling mother, and swallows so loud his throat clicks. 

“Oh, um,” he says, eyes flicking to Jonny then back down to the table. “I think that sounds fine.” 

“It’s settled, then,” says the Duke. “The wedding will be in two weeks.”

Patrick’s heart drops to his knees. Jonny’s lips part in surprise, like maybe he’d expected Patrick to fight it a little more. Too late to backpedal at this point, Patrick figures, so he just doubles down. 

“Good,” he says firmly, nodding once. Jonny’s eyebrows draw together momentarily and he almost looks… angry. Patrick shrinks down in his chair miserably. No matter what he does, he seems to be letting this guy down. 

The rest of the meeting passes with Jonny and Patrick occasionally making brief eye contact, then looking away. By the time it wraps up, Patrick has picked the plastic label off of his bottle and it sits in a shredded little pile on the table. It’s not exactly charming.

He signs a few things, mumbles a few platitudes, then stands with everyone else to do the traditional handshakes and bows. Everyone files out of the conference room and Patrick stands there for a moment, belatedly realizing there’s no recycling bin in the room.

Sharpy snatches up the bottle. “I got it,” he says. “Go talk to him.” 

“What,” Patrick says, but Sharpy’s glare shuts him up. “Okay, whatever.”

He hurries out of the room and immediately runs into Jonny’s solid chest. Flustered, he reels backward, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh, so. Hey.”

Jonny’s brows are still knit and his jaw is a hard line. Patrick knows he must have screwed up. “Can I speak with you privately, Prince Kane?” Jonny asks, and he sounds  _ pissed. _ Patrick clears his throat. 

“My detail will need to be present.” 

“Fine,” Jonny says flatly, and pushes past Patrick to go back into the conference room. Sharpy looks alarmed for a moment, but then just leans back against the wall and crosses his arms. Jonny turns on Patrick and, at first, Patrick is convinced that he’s about to get yelled at - but Jonny just looks kind of desperate. 

“Look, I know this is just politics to you,” he starts, “but it’s not exactly easy for me.” He’s not making eye contact and Patrick wonders if he rehearsed this speech in his head. “If you could just try to muster up some kind of empathy here, I’d appreciate it.”

Patrick feels gutted. He ducks his head and tries to think of the right words to say, but most of them die on his tongue. His silence apparently stretches on too long, because Jonny sighs out through his nose. 

“You know what? Nevermind, I don’t know what I-”

“No,” Patrick interrupts loudly. “I mean, it’s not just politics to me.” Jonny manages to find Patrick’s eyes, but confusion clouds his expression. “I mean, I want us to be friends, Jonny.”

Jonny purses his lips. “You didn’t even ask to see if I was okay with getting married in two weeks. Doesn’t it seem a little soon?”

“Yeah, it’s fucking soon!” Patrick says with exasperation. “What were they thinking? You barely know me. Sorry, dude, I just zoned out.” 

“You weren’t listening,” Jonny says flatly. “In that meeting. About your future.” 

Patrick shrugs sheepishly. “I get distracted.”

Jonny stares at him like he’s grown a third eye and rubs at one of his eyes. “You might be an idiot.” 

“You know, no one talks to me like you do,” Patrick says with a hint of a laugh. “Like, Sharpy is an asshole to me and my parents are constantly disappointed in me, but you…” he shakes his head a little. “It’s like you know I can do better.”

Jonny actually cracks a smile and uncrosses his arms, finally, relaxing just enough for the knot to untie in Patrick’s stomach. “Well, maybe I do.”

There’s a beat of silence that Sharpy destroys by loudly clearing his throat. Pat startles and laughs again, idly scratching the back of his head. “Okay, so, two weeks. I guess it’s time to get to know each other better.”

“For the photo ops?” Jonny asks skeptically, and Patrick waves the words away. 

“Nah, man, for us. Let’s - hey!” He straightens up suddenly, excited. “Hey, let’s go skating. I can teach you.”

“You’ll teach him to fall on his ass,” Sharpy chimes in helpfully. “I’ll teach him.” 

Jonny glances between Sharpy and Patrick, a grin breaking out on his face. “Yeah, that sounds great. What’s your schedule like?”

“Screw my schedule,” Patrick says firmly, “and yours. We’re taking you to the rink.”

///

“Huh, you’re looking good out there, Tazer,” Sharpy says an hour into their time at the rink. Patrick is sitting on the bench, arms crossed over his chest, fuming. 

“I thought you said you didn’t know how to skate,” he says acidly, and Jonny just raises his eyebrows. 

“No, I didn’t,” he says. “I just said I hadn’t done it in awhile.” 

“Patrick is just mad because you stole the show,” Sharpy says sagely, rubbing his glove against the top of Patrick’s helmet. Patrick swats at him. 

“I’m not  _ mad _ ,” he says angrily, “just hurt. My husband-to-be is keeping secrets from me.”

“Just a few years of pee-wee,” Jonny laughs, plopping down on the bench next to Pat. “And maybe juniors. And a couple of rec leagues when I was a teenager. But it’s been a decade.”

Patrick groans and wipes his gloved hand down his face. “Well, let’s go back out there,” he says eventually. “I got some goals to win back.”

Sharpy half-heartedly refs while Patrick and Jonny face each other one-on-one. Patrick finds, very quickly, that he actually enjoys having Jonny out there even if they are technically playing opposite each other. They’re laughing, checking each other lightly into the boards, chirping each other. Jonny’s rusty, sure, but he still manages to keep up decently with Patrick. 

“Nice hands,” Jonny says at one point when Patrick shows off a little clever stickhandling. He smirks and taps Jonny’s ass with his stick, only to have the puck stolen from him instantly. Jonny skates hard down the ice and fires it into Pat’s net, following it up with a mini-celly. Patrick gapes at him. 

“Cheater,” Patrick accuses as he skates up for the next faceoff. Jonny just shrugs. 

“Can’t let yourself get distracted by flattery,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. Patrick hip checks him. 

In the end, Patrick beats Jonny something like thirty to twelve, but they lose track somewhere along the way in favor of just fucking around on the ice. Sharpy’s not even watching anymore, just playing on his phone on the bench and rolling his eyes whenever Patrick laughs a little too loud. 

They’re all sweaty and exhausted by the time Sharpy calls it, announcing that Jonny is supposed to have some sort of dinner with some EPA lobbyists soon. 

“You have Jonny’s schedule too, now?” Patrick asks curiously, skating up to the bench and resisting the urge to spray ice all over Sharpy for ruining their fun. Sharpy shakes his head. 

“Seabs does,” he says shortly. Jonny’s got a half-smile on his face and Patrick is irritated with the both of them.

“Who the fuck is Seabs?” He complains, hopping off the ice and waddling awkwardly over to where his water bottle is. Jonny follows him, but somehow manages not to look awkward walking on his skates.

“My detail,” Jonny explains, swiping Patrick’s water from his hand and taking a swig of it. “He’s not especially fond of you.”

“Cool,” Patrick sighs. “Cool, cool.” 

“Aw,” Sharpy says with mock sympathy, reaching out to squeeze Patrick’s shoulder. “You worried I’m going to go work for him instead?”

“No,” Patrick says, “go. Like, now would be fine. You want him?” He nods toward Jonny, who just hands Patrick his water bottle back. 

“I think you’re stuck with him,” Jonny says empathetically.

///

Jonny and Patrick start texting. It focuses on hockey at first, with Jonny asking questions that Patrick is pretty sure he already knows the answer to, then escalates into advice about yoga poses or secret jogging routes. Sometimes it’s about wedding stuff, family to avoid, and topics to impress upon to the press. 

They skate a lot, enough that Patrick actually starts to wake up a little sore in the mornings. Their schedules seem to magically rearrange so they can make it work. (Patrick decidedly does  _ not _ thank Sharpy.) 

Jonny gets better every time they hit the ice, and Patrick can’t pretend he’s not impressed. He’s got his celly down, understated but classy, and he isn’t even shy about throwing Patrick into the boards when the chase is on. 

They have a few dinners, at first for the press’ sake but then because Patrick gets pent up with all the things he wants to talk about and impatiently forces Seabrook to schedule something. After a week of it, things are going good, and Patrick truly believes he and Jonny can work together for a long time. 

“You’re gonna love it,” Patrick says around a grin as they exit a burger joint that has the best aged scotch Patrick’s ever had. Jonny’s smiling too, his hands in his pockets, letting Patrick jostle him a little. They’re heading down main street to hit the gelato cart Patrick hasn’t been able to shut up about, and the warm evening air has just the slightest bite to it. 

The sidewalk narrows, so Patrick presses his shoulder up against Jonny’s as they walk. Jonny stiffens slightly but Patrick thinks nothing of it. “We’ll see,” Jonny mutters.

“You have no idea,” Patrick assures him. Jonny’s all hunched over, like he’s cold, so Patrick throws an arm around his shoulders. He vaguely hears the cameras popping from some distance behind them, but ignores them.

But Jonny slips out from under his arm, eyes darting around a little nervously. Patrick frowns and awkwardly puts his hands back in his pockets. “Um, anyway,” he says, “you have to try the mint. It’s the best.”

“I don’t like mint,” Jonny says. “I want raspberry.”

“You’re the weirdest person I’ve ever met,” Patrick concludes, trying not to replay the moment Jonny pulled away from him over and over again in his mind. He’s suddenly remembering a lot of that - how Jonny puts off showering in the locker room until Patrick is done, how he leans away when Patrick tries to touch him. How professional he is in front of other dignitaries. How sometimes when Patrick is talking about the wedding, Jonny doesn’t meet his eyes. 

Patrick is suddenly horrifically overcome with the idea that Jonny might not like him as much as he likes Jonny. 

That little seed of an idea, that doubt, quickly sets its roots into Patrick’s brain. . He waters it daily with every somewhat uncomfortable look Jonny throws his way, he fertilizes it with each time Jonny refuses to touch him. It isn’t long before it’s all Patrick can think about. 

“Hey, good skate,” he says one day at the rink. It’s two days before the wedding and Patrick has to get to the bottom of this. He reaches out with both arms to draw Jonny into a hug, but Jonny squirms away from him. Patrick narrows his eyes, glances around them for any onlookers, and glares at Jonny. “You wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Jonny is instantly uncomfortable, arms firmly crossed, jaw set hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says tightly. Patrick scoffs.

“You have a problem with me or something, Jonny? You’re all weird around me, you don’t let me touch you-”

“Why do you  _ want _ to touch me, Patrick?” Jonny snaps back. Patrick stares at him. 

“Uh, because you’re my friend?” He says sharply, then slumps with the weight of the doubt he’s been feeling over the past couple of weeks. “Aren’t you?”

Jonny actually looks a little guilty, his eyes a bit wide as he finally meets Patrick’s gaze. “Exactly, Patrick, we’re friends,” he says softly. “You never let me forget that.” 

Now Patrick is the confused one. “What?”

Jonny finally uncrosses his arms. “All of the touching, the dinners, the texting - it’s driving me crazy.” 

Patrick takes a step backward, Jonny’s words hitting him like a ton of bricks. “I - I mean, we’re not exactly normal friends,” he mumbles, his words kind of getting lost in his head. “We’re getting married.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Jonny says flatly. “Look, Patrick, you have to knock it off if you want this to work.”

“That’s ridiculous, Jonny,” Patrick says, shaking his head. “It’s not like it means anything.”

“God damn it, Patrick, that’s the fucking problem,” Jonny says with exasperation. “How can you be so dense?”

“Hey!” Patrick protests. “I’m not the one who apparently gets a boner just because his buddy touches his arm.”

“Fuck you, Pat,” Jonny spits. Patrick’s chest tightens, heat climbing angrily up his neck. He doesn’t know where any of this is coming from, what he did wrong, why he deserves to be berated. 

“What the hell,” he hisses. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“Apologies, my Prince,” Jonny sneers. “Keep on ignoring that I was actually into this, that I asked to be considered for this - that I’m stuck with the guy I’ve been infatuated with for the better part of a decade and he doesn’t want the same things as I do.” 

Patrick’s whole body goes cold. It’s as if Jonny just said something to him in an entirely different language. He tries to find the words to reply, but all he can think of is a very small, “...what?” 

Jonny’s all red in the face. “You were kind of in the spotlight when I was a teenager,” he says evenly. “I liked you. I paid attention to you. I never thought-” he cuts himself off, frustrated, and then takes a deep breath. “I never thought you’d consider marrying another guy.”

“That wasn’t my choice,” Patrick argues. “Nothing is ever my choice. I didn’t pick you. And it’s not my fault you’ve been holding a torch for someone you never even met!” 

Jonny’s body folds in on itself, like Patrick had just punched him in the stomach. “Seriously, man?” He says weakly. “I thought you might be able to muster up some sympathy.” 

“Screw you,” Patrick says with a huff. “You can’t drop a bomb like this on me and expect me to just be totally cool with it - you just admitted to basically stalking me through the media, man.” 

“Jesus,” Jonny says, swiping a hand down his face. “Fine, whatever, you’re right. Look, we don’t need to be- anything. It’s just a piece of paper. See you at the wedding, Patrick.”

Jonny turns around and hesitates just a moment, like he might have something more to say, but just solemnly shakes his head and shoves the locker room door open. Patrick doesn’t call after him.

Sharpy bursts in a second later. “What the fuck did you say to him, man?”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Patrick says quietly. Sharpy crosses his arms and considers him for a moment, then shakes his head the same way Jonny just had. Patrick wants to punch him. 

“Fine,” Sharpy concedes. “Let’s go.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Patrick stares at his phone all night, drafting texts in his head while waiting for Jonny to contact him first. But Jonny doesn’t, and Patrick doesn’t. The silence is so loud that Patrick can hardly think about anything else, the conversation just repeating endlessly in his head.

He stands by what he said. Mostly. He probably could have been nicer, but Jonny just bombarded him with all of those feelings with no warning. Anyone would have responded exactly like he had.

Probably.

“You should apologize,” Sharpy says the next morning, for the thirtieth time.

“I don’t have anything to apologize for,” Patrick says around a mouthful of shitty oat cereal Jonny had bought for him a few days before.

“You won’t even tell me what happened and I know that’s bullshit,” Sharpy says. “You should have seen the look on his face when he left that locker room.” He leans on the kitchen island, eyes sharp on Patrick’s.

“I saw plenty of his face _in_ the locker room,” Patrick mumbles. “Look, he dropped a fucking bomb on me, okay? What was I supposed to do?”

Sharpy rolls his eyes. “You could try giving a shit about the guy you’ve been attached at the hip to for the last two weeks. The guy you’re about to marry.”

“I do give a shit about him!” Patrick argues loudly, shoving the bowl of cereal away from him. Milk sloshes over the sides and Patrick glares at it.

“Then call him.”

“Fuck off, Sharpy,” Patrick grumbles. “I’m getting really sick of you talking to me like this.”

“Oh, don’t take it out on me,” Sharpy says flatly. “It’s not my fault you feel guilty. Clean that shit up.” He tosses a roll of paper towels to Patrick, who decidedly doesn’t catch them.

“No,” he murmurs. “No. I’m serious, man. I’m tired of your attitude. You owe me some respect.”

Sharpy crosses his arms tightly and walks closer. He looms, the bastard, and Patrick knows that even if he stands up, Sharpy will still tower over him. He does it anyway, puffing his chest out and standing right in Sharpy’s personal space.

“You want respect? Try growing up, Kaner. Take responsibility for your bullshit.”

“You’re fired,” Patrick says evenly. All his anger is concentrated in his fists, clenched so tightly at his side that he can feel himself shaking. “I mean it. I want you gone.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Sharpy sighs. “Come on, you’re better than this.”

“Get the fuck out of my house!” Patrick shouts, shoving hard against Sharpy’s chest. He stumbles backward but catches himself on the kitchen island, his face still set in an unimpressed grimace. He straightens up but makes no move for the door.

“Call him,” Sharpy says again.

“Get out,” Patrick says again.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m not calling him.”

They stand there stubbornly, eyes narrowed and tempers high.  Patrick has no intention of budging. “If you don’t leave,” he says softly, “I’m going to call the police.”

“Jesus, Patrick,” Sharpy says, swiping a hand down his face with exasperation. Patrick can’t look at him anymore. Instead he glares at the floor, trying to ignore the way his whole body aches with how tense he is. Trying to pretend that he’s okay with maybe never seeing Sharpy again.

Suddenly, Patrick is getting drawn up into Sharpy’s arms, his face smushed up against his chest. Sharpy tightens the hug, allowing Patrick zero chance of escape, and gently rests his chin on the top of Patrick’s head.

The tension in Patrick rises and shatters,and soon he’s slumped in Sharpy’s arms. He just stays there for a moment,  breathing heavily and clenching the front of Sharpy’s shirt,keeping his head buried against Sharpy’s collarbone.

“This guy’s kinda got you fucked up, huh?” Sharpy says. His voice is a pleasant rumble on Patrick’s cheek.

“Shut up,” Patrick murmurs. He’s squeezing his eyes shut, hoping that maybe he can block out the last 24 hours if he just lets Sharpy hug it out of him. “I have to call him, don’t I?”

“Yeah,” Sharpy says, patting the back of Patrick’s neck gently. “Sorry, buddy.”

///

Patrick calls, but Jonny doesn’t answer. Asshole. It takes forever for Patrick to muster up the courage and Jonny has the gall to just ignore him like that. Asshole.

Patrick texts, and Jonny still doesn’t answer. He’s starting to get that achy feeling again, especially the longer that he stares at his empty inbox. It’s becoming unbearably clear to Patrick that Jonny wants nothing to do with him.

Just, y’know, until they’re married.

On Patrick’s wedding day, he wakes up way too early and feels terrible. Nerves keep zinging down his spine, catching him at random moments and forcing him to take deep breaths. He expects to see the Jonny of a few weeks ago, unfamiliar and polite, the day after Patrick told him he wasn’t gay. The thought of it makes his stomach turn.

He stands in front of his full-length mirror, suit tailored to the millimeter, misery written all over his face. He’ll have to suck it up for the cameras, he knows, but even the fake smile he practices in the mirror looks tight and insincere.

“Just try to talk to him before the ceremony,” Sharpy says to him on their way out to the town car. His family are waiting inside, all dressed up and talking animatedly. Patrick is the first of his siblings to be married off, so it’s this grand affair that he and Jonny had very little say in. He just has to show up, smile for the damn cameras, and sign a piece of paper.

And hopefully, somewhere in all that, he’ll get a chance to talk to Jonny.

The venue is massive, all columns and brownstone with ivy twirling up to the roof. The estate is surrounded by the brightest, most unseasonably green grass he’s ever seen. Inside is a great ballroom with an elevated platform for the ceremony and a long banquet table for the united families. Dozens of tables dressed in blue and red are scattered around the ballroom while servers hastily fill glasses of water and champagne for the incoming guests.

Patrick supposes he’d think it was kind of cool if he weren’t in such a shit mood.

“Your dressing room is in the back, separate from the other groom’s, of course,” the wedding planner is saying, ushering Patrick and Sharpy through a door.

“I’m already dressed,” Patrick mutters. Sharpy jabs him in the back. “Where’s Jonny’s room?” He asks the wedding planner. “I mean, uh, Lord Toews.”

“Now, now, don’t try to sneak a peek before the ceremony,” she sing-songs. Patrick really does try his best not to glare at her. “I’ll come get you when it’s time for you to take your place at the altar.”

“Cool,” Sharpy says over Patrick’s sigh, “thanks.”

She leaves, shutting the door very firmly behind her, and Patrick turns on Sharpy immediately. “You have to go find Jonny,” he pleads. “Come on, please.”

Sharpy holds his hands up and takes a step back from Patrick’s fervor. “He already knows you want to talk to him, buddy. He’s not going to listen to me.”

Patrick collapses in an overstuffed armchair and feels sorry for himself. He knows he’s wrinkling his suit, probably mussing up his hair, but he doesn’t care. All he wants is to be able to talk to Jonny, face to face, alone.

He doesn’t get the chance.

The press swoops in a few minutes later to take some statements; they ask him inane questions about whether he’s happy, why they rushed the arrangement, how he and Lord Toews have been getting along.

“We see you two frequent the skating rink a lot,” one of the trashier magazines asks him. “So he picked up your hobby, anything of his you’re interested in?”

“Um,” Patrick is a little blindsided by the question. “Lord Toews is very passionate about the environment,” he says. It’s lame, and a terrible soundbite, and reminds him that he always had the upper hand in their friendship and happily took advantage of it.

“We just talked to Lord Toews,” says some newspaper, and Patrick immediately sits ramrod straight. “He doesn’t seem nervous at all, any nerves on your side?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says quietly. “Oh, but, uh. No doubts, just excited.”

Of course Jonny doesn’t seem nervous. He wears the mask so well, knows how to play the media game. He’s really going to make Patrick look better in almost every way.

“Everyone out,” the wedding planner booms suddenly, “it’s time to bring the Prince to the altar.”

Patrick swallows his nerves down and stands up, straightening himself out, shooting a desperate look at Sharpy.

“Knock ‘em dead, Kaner,” Sharpy says, something almost like fondness in his eyes.

“I wish you could stand up there with me to back me up,” Patrick sighs out. Sharpy laughs.

“I’ll be there, just off to the side making sure no one has a sniper rifle on you.”

“Jesus, Sharpy, could you be more morbid? God,” Patrick shoves at him, and they would probably get into a slapfight if the King and Queen didn’t choose that moment to arrive at the door to escort Patrick up. “Okay, let’s do this.”

The banquet hall is full to the brim with people Patrick vaguely recognizes. The King and Queen take their places at the main table alongside the Duke and Duchess Toews. Patrick stands in front of the table, hands clasped behind his back, and smiles as his photo gets taken a thousand times.

The moment is long and agonizing. Soon, the music will swell and people will stand and Jonny will enter from the far end of the room and make his way up to stand next to Patrick, a man he hates. Patrick is not eager to see the look on his face.

It happens, though. The live band kicks in and Patrick’s heart almost beats hard enough to distract him while Jonny makes his entrance. But as soon as he appears, Patrick’s world narrows to a pinpoint as he watches him walk up the aisle.

His suit is as tailored as Patrick’s, hugging his broad chest and shoulders and pinching in at the waist. Jonny always dresses well, obviously, but Patrick has never seen him like this. He walks swiftly, nodding to the guests he’s passing, his eyes firmly on the altar and nowhere near Patrick. It doesn’t seem fair that Patrick can’t look anywhere else.

When Jonny finally reaches him, he stands in front of him and looks past him. Patrick tries to meet his eyes, but he’s expertly avoiding it, only donning a smile for the press. Patrick smiles as well, but something more genuine - he’s missed him.

“Hey,” Patrick says quietly as the music begins to die down.

Jonny’s false smile widens, but he does not respond.

Patrick wonders if he’s doing anything to give away how frustrated and anxious he is. He’s barely listening to the officiant and almost misses a couple of his cues. But he’s trying to bore into Jonny’s eyes how much he wants to talk, how desperately sorry he is.

The final part comes up fast, and Patrick is suddenly incredibly grateful they opted out of vows. He doesn’t want to hear Jonny fake his way through a bunch of promises he doesn’t mean, or force him to listen to ones that Patrick can’t keep.

They speak their consent and exchange simple, silver bands. Jonny slides it onto Patrick’s finger so easily, his hands warm and soft. Patrick gives Jonny’s hand a little squeeze, just because he can, and Jonny’s mask temporarily slips. His eyes widen for just a split second, and Patrick thinks he just might have a chance to fix this.

The marriage treaty is presented to them to sign, and suddenly the wedding becomes unbearably real. Patrick takes a shaky breath and scrawls his signature with a trembling hand. Jonny executes his flawlessly, naturally. Patrick can feel his cheeks go pink.

“It is with honor and joy that I now declare the houses of Kane and Toews united with this marriage,” says the officiant. “I introduce to you all: the Princes Kane and Toews.”

The music swells and thunderous applause hits them in a wave, startling Patrick to the point that he doesn’t notice Jonny sliding his arms around Pat’s shoulders and pulling him in. Patrick stumbles forward into Jonny, automatically grabbing his back for purchase, and then he realizes that Jonny is about to kiss him.

Oh, right. That part.

He sucks in the tiniest breath right before Jonny’s mouth meets his and it’s as if the world suddenly falls out from under his feet. Jonny’s cupping the back of his head with one hand and it feels… kind of nice. Patrick actually kisses back, pressing up into Jonny and tightening his hands on his shoulder blades.

Jonny pulls back, eyes narrowed with a hint of annoyance, before he melts back into his smile. Patrick is light-headed, confused, and really wants to sit down at the banquet table and slam a few hundred glasses of champagne.

It seems like forever until Patrick escapes the handshake line and pleasantries so he and Jonny can take their spots in the middle of the table. His elbow is pressed up against Jonny’s and he’d be all right if Jonny wanted to keep it there, but he scoots a centimeter away under the guise of reaching for his champagne.

“You’re going to have to talk to me eventually,” Patrick says. The people around them are caught up in their own conversations, food, and music. It’s almost a private moment, except they’re on a giant stage in front of hundreds of people.

“I don’t have much to say,” Jonny says, unfolding his napkin and splaying it across his lap.

“I do,” Patrick says. “I’m really sorry, man. I was way out of line.”

Jonny regards him for a moment. “Yeah, you were.”

Patrick leans into him and lowers his voice just enough to that he knows for sure they’re out of earshot from the other guests. “I’m going to do better, okay?”

“You’re going to have to,” Jonny says firmly.

So, he’s not off the hook. But Jonny seems a little more relaxed, the pinch between his eyes smoothing out. For the first time in a couple of days, Patrick has some hope.

“How long before you move into my place?” Patrick asks tentatively. Jonny shrugs a shoulder and chews his salad thoughtfully.

“I can arrange it for next week,” Jonny says. “I assume you have a room set up for me?”

Patrick blinks. “Oh, um.”

Jonny actually laughs, a real laugh, and the sound of it eases the knot in Patrick’s stomach. “Do you ever think ahead, man?”

“Not often enough, I guess,” Patrick concedes.

“I’ll try to help you out,” Jonny says wryly. “It’ll be my first initiative.”

Patrick purses his lips and nods. “Yeah, the environment can take a back seat. This should be priority numero uno.”

“We’re probably too late to save the earth anyway,” Jonny sighs, “at least there’s some hope for you.”

Patrick’s smiling as the conversation gets easier, and he feels more relaxed than he has in days. He knows he still has a lot to make up for, but this is just the start he needs. Their dishes get cleared and there are a few more rounds of champagne, leaving Patrick feeling light and happy and maybe a little tipsy.

“Patrick,” Jonny says, knocking shoulders with him to knock him out of his reverie. “We have to do our first dance, now.”

“Oh.” Patrick blinks. “Right.” It’ll be a traditional thing, a dance he’s been practicing since he was old enough to bow, so he’s not nervous. Still, that doesn’t explain why his hands are sweaty and his throat is dry as he stands up and tugs his suit down. He’s unfathomably unsure as he leads Jonny down to the ballroom floor, the crowd going hushed and focused when the lights dim.

“You ready?” Jonny asks, and Patrick tries not to roll his eyes. He fails. He presses his palm to Jonny’s, wishing it wasn’t as damp as it is, and raises his eyebrows in challenge.

“Are you?” He says defiantly. Jonny narrows his eyes.

“It’s on, Kane.”

“Bring it.”

The dance goes just like that. Jonny’s execution is spot on, of course, while Patrick absolutely gives him a run for his money. There’s a moment where Patrick can feel Jonny going left when he absolutely should be going right, and he’s about to celebrate, but Jonny course-corrects at the last minute and catches himself.

“I saw that,” Patrick murmurs.

“Prove it,” Jonny shoots back, and advances to the next step.

People have joined them on the floor at this point, now, but Patrick isn’t paying attention to any of them. He’s working to keep up with Jonny, who looks just as focused as he does on the ice, and something grabs ahold of Patrick’s chest and squeezes.

He stumbles, dizzy, and Jonny almost crows but seems to catch sight of Patrick’s distress. “You okay?” He whispers, but something in the low timbre of his voice and the concern in his eyes makes Patrick go hot, and he shakes his head against the onslaught.

“No, I’m fine,” he says, forcing a smile, “too much champagne, I think.”

“Let’s sit,” Jonny says, pulling back from Patrick and doing the traditional bow. Patrick mimics him but keeps his eyes on the way the suit stretches against Jonny’s wide back and finds himself inexplicably wanting to touch it.

They sit back down and Jonny is fussing over him, steadying fingers on his shoulder and eyes searching his face. Patrick really, really wants him to go away, but he also thinks that the ache might get a lot worse if Jonny puts distance between them.

“Dude,” Jonny says, “you don’t look so good.”

Patrick laughs mirthlessly and clenches his fists. “I’m good,” he says again, “really, man. I just-” _want to kiss you._ Patrick frowns at that thought.

Jonny is looking at him pensively. Patrick wants to shove his face away. “Was it weird?” He asks after a moment. “Dancing with me - with a guy?”

Patrick is instantly devastated. “No, Jonny,” he says quickly, “it’s not you. It’s not-”

“Come on,” Jonny says decisively, standing up and encircling Patrick’s wrist with his fingers. “We’re getting some air, let’s go.”

Patrick barely protests as Jonny drags him out of the main ballroom, past guests who try to make conversation and their parents who look on disapprovingly. Patrick does manage to muster up a fake smile, gesturing an assurance that they’ll be back in just a moment. He hopes.

Sharpy makes a move to follow him, brows knit in genuine concern, but Patrick waves him off. Sharpy hesitates but ultimately listens to him, moving back to stand in neutral mode even though his eyes stay on Pat until they leave the room.

Jonny drags him to what must have been his dressing room earlier - his bag is open on one of the chairs and there are two double doors that lead out to what looks like a small balcony. Jonny pushes him toward them while he shuts and locks the door.

Patrick’s neck is all warm as he pulls open the doors, letting the crisp air roll over him and calm his nerves. But then Jonny is there behind him, ushering him out onto the balcony so they can be truly alone.

“All right,” Jonny says, crossing his arms. “Out with it. We have to talk about stuff.”

“Already?” Patrick jokes weakly. Jonny just continues to stare evenly at him. Patrick wrings his hands, looking out at the evening sky for a moment and taking a deep breath. It’s not like having a crush on your husband is a wholly terrible thing, he reasons. And Jonny would be into it.

He doesn’t have that much to lose.

Patrick lurches forward ungracefully and grasps at Jonny’s lapels, pulling him down to press their mouths together. Jonny grunts in surprise, putting his hands flat on Patrick’s chest and pushing.

“Whoa, whoa,” he says, still mashed up against Patrick’s lips, “Pat, stop it.”

Patrick pulls away guiltily, head pounding with confusion, trying to figure out if he’s supposed to say anything. Jonny moves his hands to grip Patrick’s shoulders and tries to catch his eye.

“What the hell,” Jonny says after a moment.

“Sorry,” Patrick mumbles.

“I don’t want you to do that for me,” Jonny says quietly.

“I’m not,” Patrick protests. “I swear, I’m not - I want to, Jonny.”

Jonny peers at him suspiciously. “How drunk are you?”

“I’m not!” Patrick says again. All his words are coming up at once and getting so jumbled in his brain that he can’t think of what to say. “I don’t know, Jonny, isn’t it worth it to try?”

Jonny looks flabbergasted. He’s just staring at Patrick, lips slightly parted, eyes slitted. “You want to try,” he repeats, “being gay?”

It does sound stupid when Jonny puts it that way. He doesn’t answer.

The laugh that bubbles out of Jonny is a little hysterical. Patrick smiles uncertainly and wipes his sweaty hands on his pants, feeling frenzied, confused, completely at a loss for what they’re supposed to do next.

“Where was this attitude a few days ago?” Jonny asks, rubbing at one of his eyes with the heel of his hand. Patrick crosses his arms and bows away from Jonny slightly - he’s starting to get the feeling this isn’t going to end well.

“I’ve been spending the last two days obsessing over hurting you,” Patrick says. “And then you show up here - looking like _that_ \- and you kiss me, you dance with me, you start to forgive me-”

“Let’s not go too far,” Jonny mutters. Patrick glares at him.

“I’m just _saying,_ ” he continues, “I guess there was something. Y’know. There.”

Jonny leans back against the doors to the building, where there are hundreds of people waiting for them to return and show off their happy union. Instead, Patrick is trapped in here having an unbearably awkward conversation about something he doesn’t fully understand.

And he still wants to kiss Jonny.

“Well,” Patrick says, “what do you say, buddy?”

Jonny smirks, maybe at how adorable Patrick is being, but probably at the stupid way Patrick had asked that question. He takes a step toward Patrick, threads his fingers through the hair at the base of Kaner’s neck, and starts to lean in.

Patrick’s eyes slip shut and he can almost feel Jonny there, his lips just a breath away, and he braces himself for a kiss.

“Not a chance,” Jonny murmurs, and tugs hard on Patrick’s hair.

“Ow! Hey, you asshole,” Patrick whines, worming out of Jonny’s grip. “What the hell.”

Jonny’s grinning, easy and cocky, as Patrick rubs angrily at the sore spot on the back of his head. “You’re really used to getting what you want, aren’t you?”

“No,” Patrick lies petulantly. “Why are you being such a dick?”

“You want me?” Jonny says, raising an eyebrow in an infuriatingly inviting way. “You’re going to have to put some work in.”

Patrick stares at him. “What, so, you do want to try? You want to, like, date?”

Jonny looks thoughtful for a moment, eyes up toward the starry sky, and Patrick really wants to kick him in the shins. “We can work up to that,” he concedes.

A chilly breeze comes through and Patrick wraps his arms around himself against it, trying to work out what the hell Jonny is talking about. There’s a mix of humiliation and anxiety swirling around in his stomach and his mind is locked up with too many things; he feels like he needs a nap.

“Relax,” Jonny says after a moment, pulling the doors to the main room open. A gust of warm air busts out and Patrick is grateful for it. “I’m just not going to dive into a relationship with a straight guy head first.”

“I’m not straight,” Patrick quips, and Jonny socks him on the arm.

“Let’s finish the party. Tomorrow, you can start courting me.”

Patrick groans and buries his face in his hands. “Dude, too gay.”

“Get used to it,” Jonny sighs, patting him gently on the shoulders.

///

Jonny doesn’t come back with Patrick after the wedding, but he expects that. Instead, he and Sharpy drink champagne straight from the bottle in Patrick’s living room and put old music videos on the big screen TV.

“So, you’re gay?” Sharpy asks. Patrick waves him off.

“I don’t know,” he says.

Sharpy rolls his eyes. “And Toews didn’t want to commit to dating you? What a shocker.”

Patrick pauses with the mouth of the bottle pressed up against his mouth. “What?” He asks, muffled.

“Come on,” Sharpy says. “He doesn’t want to be an experiment, Kaner. Duh.”

“Why not?” Patrick asks softly.

“Do you tie your own shoelaces in the morning?” Sharpy asks, thumping Patrick on the head with his knuckles. “What if it doesn’t work out, man? He likes you and you already dumped him once for being straight. He’s scared.”

“Jonny’s never scared,” Patrick argues. “And I didn’t dump him, I just insulted him to his face.”

“Peekaboo, you know I have love for you in this icy heart of mine,” Sharpy says, patting Patrick’s knee. “But you’re a goddamn moron, like, eighty percent of the time.”

“Fuck off,” Patrick says. He kicks at Sharpy with his socked feet until he moves off of the couch to grab another bottle of champagne. “Hey, is it stealing champagne if it’s from my own wedding?”

“Considering you didn’t go home with your groom, I think the media will let you off the hook for wanting to drink,” Sharpy calls from the other room. Patrick shoots up on the couch and gapes at Sharpy when he returns, horrified.

“Do you think that’s what they all think? That Jonny and I are having sex?” He panics.

“Well, not tonight,” Sharpy says thoughtfully. Patrick swipes the champagne bottle from his hands. “Maybe getting over that could be the first step to seducing Jonny.”

“I don’t want to _seduce_ him,” Patrick says, spitting out the work. “I just want him around. And I want to kiss him, I guess.”

“Aw, who knew Peeks was such a romantic?” Sharpy coos. Patrick buries his face against the couch cushions so Sharpy won’t see how red he gets.

“I fucking hate you,” he says into the cushion. “Shut up and help me work out a plan, would you?”

///

Patrick wakes up the next day with a killer hangover and an email receipt for a seven hundred dollar bouquet of flowers sent to Jonny’s estate.

So, that’s not embarrassing.

He eats a too-big breakfast and watches the news coverage of the wedding. Jonny looks good, shooting all these looks at Patrick that he definitely didn't catch the night before. There's a lot of interviews with guests who gush about the party, which makes Patrick feel some pangs of pride. His parents look fairly pleased, though he hasn't heard from them at all yet since they'd said their goodbyes.

Come to think of it, he hasn't heard from Jonny, either. And those flowers were expensive.

He picks up his phone and fiddles with it while some tabloid show in the background implies that he and Jonny rendezvoused later on in the evening. He wants to text, obviously, but Jonny had definitely implied he wanted to take it easy. Patrick has to respect that.

He can woo someone. He can be romantic or whatever. He'll make Jonny cream his pants if he has to.

He starts making a list. Sharpy watches and is under strict rules to not interrupt or judge Patrick's awesome plan.

He's gonna take Jonny on the greatest date ever concocted.

“You can't fly to Greece on family's private jet,” Sharpy says, jabbing at one of Patrick's bullet points.

“Fuck you, why not?” Pat pouts.

“Taxpayer money, you idiot,” Sharpy sighs. Patrick stares at the list. “You wanna travel, you have to buy something yourself.”

“Can I afford a jet?”

“You can afford plane tickets,” Sharpy says, all slow like Patrick's stupid. “But it's a dumb idea anyway. Jetlag, travel exhaustion. Just stay here.”

Pat scribbles out that part of the list.

///

“No exotic animals.”

“God, you are no fun at all.”

///

“David Bowie is dead.”

“...an impersonator, then.”

///

“Okay, done,” Patrick announces triumphantly. “What do you think?”

“Pretty extravagant,” Sharpy says hesitantly. “Sure it's the right move?”

“He's gonna love it,” Patrick beams. He can't wait to get started. He's so ready to sweep Jonny off his feet.

///

A few days later, the stage is set. The house is decked out from top to bottom, the kitchen bustling with the extravagant meal Patrick has planned. He’s even wearing a soft, long-sleeved sweater that his mother had gotten him years ago insisting it would be perfect for a date.

Jonny’s car comes up to the front gate around seven and Patrick’s heart is lodged in his throat. He swallows nervously and gives Sharpy a withering look for smirking condescendingly at him. He stands in the foyer, arms clasped behind his back, as the house attendant answers the door.

Jonny strides in with Seabrook at his back and Patrick totally notices the way he locks eyes with Sharpy and gives him a small nod of greeting. He’ll have to tease Sharpy about his BFF later, though, because Jonny is smiling uncertainly at him and he has one dimple showing. That’s all Patrick can focus on at the moment.

“Hey,” Jonny says, approaching Patrick and pulling him into a light hug. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Hi,” Patrick says. If he’d had any doubt that this is something he wants to pursue, it completely dissipates when Patrick feels Jonny’s chest pressed up against his. “Yeah, dude. I’m about to blow your mind.”

Jonny purses his lips. “Like that bouquet you sent me after the wedding?”

Patrick’s cheeks go hot. He’d almost forgotten about those. “Uh, yeah, I guess. Hey, you never thanked me for that, you jerk.”

He’s joking, but the discomfort on Jonny’s face gives him pause. He takes a small step back from Jonny, who awkwardly scratches the back of his head. “I mean, yeah,” Jonny starts, “thanks. The idea was nice. But it’s just-”

“Too much?” Patrick asks, dread creeping up the back of his neck.

Jonny chews on his bottom lip for a moment. “At risk of sounding like a bleeding heart, here,” he starts, “they’re just not very environmentally friendly. There’s the carbon dioxide emissions from the transport, and that imported flowers can be hostile to our ecosystems - and greenhouses have a terrible effect on our atmosphere, they’re just - I-”

Patrick stares at Jonny. How the hell is he supposed to know all of that? Especially after three bottles of champagne? He crosses his arms and drops his gaze to the floor, unable to handle the way Jonny’s looking at him. “I didn’t know,” he says with a shrug.

“I know,” Jonny says, and his voice is filled with pity. Patrick doesn’t want to start the evening like this. He unclenches his fists and slaps on a smile, pushing away all the disappointment Jonny is shooting at him.

“Sorry about that,” he says, with a half-shrug. “No more bouquets, I swear. Now, c’mon, let’s go check out the dining room.”

Jonny nods, makes a move like he’s going to touch Patrick on the shoulder, then pulls his arm back. Patrick tries not to clench his teeth in frustration. Getting through to Jonny seems damn near impossible, and Patrick is running out of ideas.

He leads Jonny into the dining room and beams with pride. The table is ornately dressed with platters of warm food, from roasted chicken to a tower of soft cheeses and bread. Patrick even requested salads of roasted root vegetables and quinoa and shit. It’s beautiful, all fresh and shiny and giving off the best smells that remind Patrick of the banquets his family would have growing up.

“What do you think?” Patrick asks, stomach clenched up with anticipation. “Pretty rad, huh?”

Jonny’s eyes are traveling all over the banquet table, assessive and calm. Patrick was honestly expecting a little more than that.

“Are there other people joining us?” Jonny asks after a moment.

“Nope,” Patrick says, popping the ‘p’ and knocking his shoulder into Jonny’s. “It’s just going to be you and me.”

Jonny hesitates, but eventually smiles and nods. “Okay. Thanks, Patrick.”

They take their seats at the banquet table and staff begins to file out to fill their plates with piles of food. Patrick watches Jonny politely thank each one of them, something Patrick should probably do more often.

“What do you think?” Patrick asks once Jonny has dug into the quinoa dish. Patrick pushes his around on his plate; quinoa tastes like gravel to him. Jonny smiles, but something about it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It’s good,” he says with a nod. “There’s a lot of it.”

“Only the best,” Patrick says proudly. Jonny’s smile falls, and Patrick starts to feel like maybe he’s not enjoying this as much as he’s putting on. “C’mon, man. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Jonny says, waving off the question. “I’m happy to be here with you.” He takes another small bite of his food, and Patrick manages to relax.

“Me, too,” he agrees. “I was up all night planning - at one point I think there was a hot air balloon ride involved. But I thought you might like a dinner at home, instead. Try that fish - I had it flown in from Argentina, special.”

Jonny puts his fork down. “Patrick, I think I need to go.”

All the air seems to evaporate from Patrick’s lungs and he’s left cold and confused. He stares at Jonny, brows knit, jaw set. “What? Why?” His tone is a little sharper than he intended, but he can’t help that feeling of irritation creeping up the back of his neck.

Jonny sighs so heavily that Patrick actually feels the weight of it on his shoulders. “You’re trying,” Jonny begins, “I get it. But I’m difficult, Patrick.”

Patrick’s concern very quickly melts into confusion. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He says pointedly. “Why do you act so high and mighty all the time? I spent hours planning this for you.”

“I know,” Jonny sighs, “and I wish I could appreciate it more. All I can think about is how much food this is going to waste.”

“Jesus, I get it, okay?” Patrick snaps. “You’re better than me. You’ve made that clear.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Jonny argues, “at all. Look, I like you, Patrick. But this environmental initiative has been everything to me over the past few years. It’s all I can think about sometimes.”

“That’s not my fault,” Patrick says peevishly. “I don’t know anything about that stuff.”

Jonny shakes his head. “I know,” he says, “and I shouldn’t expect you to. But I can’t help it - it’s important to me.”

All Patrick can think about is how the food is getting cold, and Jonny gets frown lines when he’s concentrating. He can’t get his thoughts straight, not when Jonny’s silence is this deafening. When Jonny stays quiet for another minute, Patrick rubs at one eye with the heel of his palm.

“You know what? Fine, go,” Patrick says grimly, waving Jonny off. “Sorry this wasn’t up to your standards.”

Jonny doesn’t move at first. “Patrick,” he starts, all empathy and kindness, and Patrick really wants to hit him.

“Forget it, okay? You’re right. This was stupid. I’ll donate all the food, or whatever.”

“You can’t donate prepared- nevermind. Nevermind.” Jonny takes a tentative step backward. “I didn’t mean to, uh. Make you feel bad.”

Patrick laughs and covers his face with both hands, completely unable to believe this is happening. “Congratulations, I guess.”

“I don’t want to fight with you,” Jonny says flatly. “I’m going. Maybe this was a bad idea.”

“Yeah, maybe so,” Patrick says too loudly. “See you around.”

Jonny waits a beat longer before shaking his head and turning to walk back down the hallway. There’s some quiet murmuring that he can’t quite make out, and he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t want to anyway. Patrick doesn’t move until he hears the front door click shut.

Sharpy carefully enters the room a moment later and looks at the banquet table. “So, we eating?”

Patrick nods stubbornly. “Don’t hog the mashed potatoes.”

///

Later, after a very quiet dinner, Patrick finally thunks his head down on the table and groans loudly.

“He's an asshole, right?” He says into the oak finish. “Can't he see how much work I put in?”

Sharpy makes a contemplative sound from the other side of the table. “You tried,” he concedes. “He doesn't know how much you doing something like this means, Peeks.”

“Exactly!” Patrick shouts, sitting straight up in his chair. He hadn't really expected Sharpy to agree with him. “He barely knows me, and he's laying out all this judgement just because I don't live up to his expectations.”

Sharpy throws a dinner roll at him. Patrick catches it and glares at him. “You threw a huge banquet for an environmental activist,” Sharpy says flatly. Before Patrick can protest, he continues. “And he expected you to change overnight. Neither of you are geniuses, here.”

Patrick puts his head back down on the table. “So, what do I do?”

“Still like him?” Sharpy asks. Patrick rolls his eyes.

“Yes,” he admits quietly.

“Why?” Sharpy presses.

Patrick closes his eyes and thinks for a minute before answering. “I think he makes me want to be better,” he says. “And I like when I can make him laugh. I don't know, man. You said it, we're both idiots, but I feel like maybe together we can be less stupid. About things.”

“You’re a poet at heart, Kaner,” Sharpy says. Patrick whips the dinner roll back at him.

“I've only known the dude a few weeks, sue me for not spouting Shakespeare.”

Sharpy laughs affectionately and shakes his head, taking a bite out of the roll. He chews thoughtfully for a moment while Patrick watches him, chin in hands, dejected. “Well,” Sharpy finally says, “what are you going to do?”

Patrick glares at him. “Aren’t you supposed to help?”

Sharpy shrugs and pushes his plate away from him. “I think you’re on your own with this one, bud.”

“But I suck,” Patrick complains. “C’mon, you’re supposed to be there for me all the time.”

Sharpy nods slowly. “This is me being there for you, Peeks. You gotta run this one solo.”

///

This time, Patrick doesn't brainstorm. He researches.

He texts Jonny an apology and gets an inexplicable “me, too” in response. They have hockey the next day, a whole press-heavy thing, and Patrick won't be able to stand it if it's weird. In the meantime, he makes some phone calls, sets up some threads, and only threatens Sharpy with unemployment once.

On the ice, Jonny gets pink-cheeked and a little sweaty, eyes alive and trying to keep track of Patrick. The cameras click all around them but Patrick is just happy to be back here, where they seem to fit so well.

Jonny laughs when Patrick takes a spill into the net, even offers a gloved hand to help him back up. He hauls Patrick into his space, his breath warm on Pat's cheek, and smiles. “Clumsy,” he says fondly.

“Fuck you,” Patrick says with a grin, shoving Jonny low enough that he loses his balance. Pat reclaims the puck while Jonny's trying to right himself, and scores.

“What can I say,” he shrugs when Jonny glares indignantly at him. “I know how to get what I want.”

Jonny snorts and the game is back on. Patrick lets Jonny win - at least, that's what he tells the press afterwards. It definitely doesn’t have anything to do with Jonny’s bizarre penchant for breakaways. They get to be alone in the locker room afterwards and Jonny boxes Patrick into a corner when they’re both still half-dressed. Patrick goes red.

“I owe you an apology,” Jonny says. Patrick swallows and shakes his head a little.

“No, I mean, it was my fault. I should have listened to you.”

“I’ve been doing it my whole life, it’s not all intuitive.” Jonny says, reaching out to squeeze Patrick’s shoulder. “Sometimes I can be sort of, ah, stuck up about it.”

“Well, thanks,” Patrick says, trying not to focus entirely on how warm Jonny’s hand is on his skin. “I’ll keep listening, though.”

“And I’ll be patient with you,” Jonny says.

Patrick makes a face. “Guess those are our vows, huh.”

Jonny kisses him, soft and unpresumptuous, his hand sliding up from Patrick’s shoulder to gently cup the back of his head. It doesn’t last too long but Patrick’s legs still go shaky and he finds himself chasing Jonny’s mouth for more.

Blessedly, Jonny allows the kiss to go on just a little longer, just a little deeper, until Patrick pulls away. “Never thought I’d make out with a guy in a locker room,” he mumbles. Jonny smirks.

“That’s not making out, Patrick,” he says. His voice is rumbly and low and Patrick wonders when all of his bones liquefied.

“I was being flippant, Jonathan,” Patrick says pointedly, his tone way braver than he feels. Jonny’s smiling and there’s a glimmer of something in his eyes that is incredibly distracting. Patrick bites his lip. “So, uh, are we getting dressed or undressed?”

Jonny playfully shoves him back up against the wall with a laugh and returns to his duffel bag to throw a shirt on. “I’m not that easy,” he says. Patrick heaves a dramatic sigh and goes to his pile of clothes to get presentable.

“This was good,” Patrick says when they’re ready to leave the locker room. “Proof that we’re capable of getting along.”

Jonny purses his lips. “Maybe capable of more than that.”

Patrick groans and slings his bag over his shoulder. “You’re killing me here, Toews.” He pauses and takes Jonny by the elbow, stopping him from going out the double doors. “Hey, so, uh. You have a room at my place.”

Jonny’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Already?”

Patrick nods as he crosses his arms in front of him, trying and failing to read Jonny’s expression. “Yeah. Let me know when you want to come see it.”

“Tomorrow,” Jonny says firmly. “I’ll bring some things.”

///

Jonny shows up at noon the next day, two hours earlier than they’d planned on. Patrick suspects he does this on purpose. He’s been elbow deep in some paperwork he barely stands while Sharpy throws paperclips at the back of his head, and the gate alarm goes off.

Patrick sits up. “Are we expecting anyone?”

Sharpy’s innocent expression gives the whole game away. Patrick flips him off.

“You could have given me some warning, douchebag,” he grumbles, brushing himself off as he walks to the video doorbell. Sharpy just holds his hands up defensively. Patrick presses the button and Seabs’ face comes up on the screen, as expected.

“Hey, we’re here early.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Patrick says as he hits the buzzer. “Come on in, you liars.”

Jonny doesn’t even bother to look apologetic when Patrick swings the door open. He’s got a few bags and Seabs is holding a big box, eyebrows up expectantly.

“Hey, roomie,” Seabs says, pushing in past Patrick to awkwardly fist bump Sharpy despite holding the box. Patrick glares at the both of them for a moment, but then Jonny is pushing one of his bags into Patrick’s hands.

“Sorry,” he says, clearly not sorry at all. “Seabs wanted to make sure you weren’t scrambling at the last minute.”

“The trust in this marriage is truly unbelievable,” Patrick says sarcastically, and gestures for Jonny to follow him. “Come on.”

Up the stairs, Patrick hangs a left away from where his master bedroom is and brings Jonny down the long hallway to the room Patrick has set up for him. Jonny raises an eyebrow at the closed door, so Patrick rolls his eyes and swings it open.

It’s modest inside. A queen-sized bed with organic cotton sheets sits in the middle of the room, surrounded by oak and wicker furniture that Patrick sourced from a green home furnishing store outside of the city. Jonny blinks at it, runs his fingers along the sleek wood, and gives Patrick a look. He lets his bags fall to the floor as Patrick gently puts one down on the bed, watching Jonny stroke the bedsheets and smell the wicker. Patrick thinks that’s probably a good sign.

“Um, it’s all eco-friendly,” Patrick says. “Like, no flame retardants. And no soy foam, or whatever.” He doesn’t really know what he’s talking about, but his cursory Google search led him to understand that those things were bad. Jonny’s bewilderment melts into something much more pleased. “Oh, and-”

Patrick takes Jonny by the hand and leads him to the balcony stretching out from his room, which has been set up with box planters and tall lattice around the edges. The dirt in the planters is soft and ready, with a selection of vegetable and flower seeds propped up next to it for Jonny to choose from. The sun beats down on half of the balcony, while the other half is shaded by a bamboo canopy.

Jonny still hasn’t said anything. Patrick shuffles nervously. “I paid kids working for a local charity to set it up,” he says, “so it’s all, uh. Eco-friendly. Did I say that already?”

The silence stretches on a moment longer while Jonny squats down next to the box of seeds to read all the packets. He even checks the back of them, for some reason Patrick can’t fully understand. He steps backward, leans up against the wall, and watches Jonny gently touch the soil in the garden boxes.

“If there’s anything that doesn’t-”

“It’s great,” Jonny says, his back still turned to Patrick. “I can’t believe you did all this.”

Patrick crosses his arms. “Well, I’ve been listening.”

Jonny stands up and turns on Patrick, moving right up against him and planting his hand on the wall behind Patrick’s head. The other claps down right on the side of Patrick’s neck, his fingers barely brushing the sensitive hairs just under his skull. He smells like eucalyptus.

“Oh,” Patrick says eloquently.

“Thank you,” Jonny says. His eyes are boring into Patrick’s, all soulful and deep, and it’s making Patrick’s stomach knot up. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t up for another speech, so-”

Jonny cuts him off with a kiss, lining his body up with Patrick’s and pressing him into the wall. Patrick lets his eyes slip shut, losing himself in the sensation of Jonny all around him. This is unfamiliar territory; Jonny’s big hands, the slight brush of facial hair against his cheek, the way he has to tilt his chin up to keep the kiss going - and it’s all making Patrick shiver. The first touch of Jonny’s tongue to his is electric and he finds himself surging forward to chase that feeling. Jonny chuckles into the kiss and allows Patrick to be eager, patiently following each of Patrick’s frenetic moves.

When they break, Patrick falls back against the wall and can feel the heat in his cheeks. “Well, uh, that’s. Nice.”

Jonny laughs and gently drags his fingers through Patrick’s hair. “Not freaking out?”

A spark of shame flares up in Patrick at the way he acted when Jonny first came onto him. He puts his hands on Jonny’s hips and presses his thumbs into the dips of muscle there. “Not freaking out,” he confirms quietly. “I’m not a skittish rabbit.”

“Uh huh,” Jonny says. “So you won’t go running off if I... just...”

Jonny reinitiates the kiss and presses his thigh right between Patrick’s legs, startling a noise out of Patrick. Jonny’s leg is really warm and _really_ solid, applying just enough pressure to make Patrick feel hot all over. The kiss turns dirty, all tongue and breath and gentle nips, and Patrick starts to go dizzy. He grabs onto Jonny for purchase, fisting his hands in Jonny’s shirt and holding on tightly. Jonny seems to like this - he hums a noise of approval and noses at Patrick’s cheek.

Once Jonny starts rolling his hips, Patrick’s pretty sure he’s so far gone that he’ll have a hard time coming back to earth. He’s definitely hard, and Jonny’s not too far behind him by the feel of it. And Patrick can _feel_ it. The bulge in Jonny’s jeans is so hyper-present that Patrick can hardly think about anything else.

But it feels good.

Even though it’s broad daylight and they’re outside, Patrick thinks he’d pretty much let Jonny do whatever he wanted at this point. Maybe Jonny senses this, because he slides his hand between their hips and cups Patrick through his pants, squeezing softly. Patrick can’t help but pushing forward into his grip.

“Jesus,” Jonny says with amusement, “how did you not know you were into men?”

“Fuck _off,_ ” Patrick grits out. “Maybe if sexy, grumpy dudes with nice asses and a love for hockey hit on me more often, I would have figured it out.”

“I’m not grumpy,” Jonny murmurs right into the curve of Patrick’s neck. He’s still gently rubbing at Patrick’s cock through his pants like it’s not a big deal at all. “You can touch me back, if you want.”

Patrick realizes his hands are balled into fists at his sides. He tries to relax them, putting them back to Jonny’s waist, but can’t work up the nerve to touch the swell of his ass. But when Jonny deftly unbuttons Patrick’s jeans and slips his hand inside, Patrick knows he has to do something.

He moves one hand back to Jonny’s ass and grips, eliciting a small gasp from Jonny which only makes Patrick squirm against his palm. He continues to knead the muscle through Jonny’s jeans while Jonny wraps his fingers around Patrick’s hard dick and starts a slow, methodical stroke.

Pat’s jeans have slipped down at this point, leaving him kind of exposed on the balcony save for his boxer briefs. Jonny’s just jerking him off in them, not bothering to pull them down, and something about that is unbelievably hot to Patrick. Jonny’s all about it, too, only breaking kisses to look down at how his hand moves inside Pat’s underwear.

“You’re so hot,” he says, thumbing across the sensitive head of Pat’s dick. “Thought about this for so long.”

Patrick can’t believe it. Jonny’s just touching him and Pat is so not reciprocating, just falling apart under Jonny’s ministrations - but Jonny seems to be enjoying it anyway. His eyes are dark and narrowed with concentration and Patrick is seconds from coming in his fucking pants.

“Fuck,” Patrick spits. Something about Jonny getting off on this is making Pat crazy. His hands fly up to clamp down on Jonny’s shoulders as his hips jerk forward against Jonny’s hand. “I’m gonna come, Jonny.”

“Good,” Jonny mumbles, kissing Patrick’s lips gently. “Good, c’mon.”

Patrick shoots right there in his underwear, mid-afternoon on his balcony, and Jonny’s stroking him through it, letting his hand get all sticky and wet, thumbing at Patrick’s cheek while he does it.

Pat slumps back against the wall, chest heaving with breaths. He can feel how hot his cheeks are, probably all red at this point, and Jonny carefully pulls his hand out from Patrick’s pants. It’s shiny with come and Pat shivers hard.

“Um,” he says.

“I didn’t plan that,” Jonny admits with an embarrassed smile. “Sorry.”

Patrick waves a hand in front of his face. “No, no. No. Nope. No sorry here, buddy.”

Jonny laughs and leans in for another kiss, lingering just a little longer than he needs to. Patrick wonders if maybe he’s still asleep and all of this is just some dream his jerk brain decided to bestow on him.

“I should, uh. Wash up.”

Patrick stares at him for a moment. “Don’t you want me to, uh. You know…” He makes a crude gesture. Jonny shakes his head and cups Patrick’s cheek with his clean hand.

“I’m good,” he says. “Really. Let’s just say you owe me one.”

Patrick glares at him. “Guaranteeing a next time, huh.”

“As if it wasn’t guaranteed,” Jonny quips, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. Patrick yanks his jeans back up and buttons them. He’ll definitely have to change, like, as soon as possible, but he doesn’t want Sharpy picking up on anything when they leave the room.

“There’s an attached bathroom,” Patrick says. “Organic soap and stuff. A loofah.”

“A loofah,” Jonny repeats flatly, following Patrick back into his new bedroom.

“I’m _trying,_ ” Pat whines, shoving Jonny into the bathroom and crossing his arms. “Asshole.”

///

Sharpy and Seabs notice how disheveled the two of them are immediately. Sharpy grins. Seabs squeezes the bridge of his nose. All in all, it’s extremely embarrassing.

///

Jonny finishes moving into his room after just a few days. He doesn’t change much in it, which makes Patrick slightly anxious; he can’t figure out if Jonny likes it the way it is, or is just wary about making it his own.

Their schedules keep them mostly apart during the day, but they manage to have dinner together every night. Sometimes Patrick gets it ordered in, but Jonny suggests they cook one night and it becomes their new routine. Patrick learns that Jonny has a sensitive stomach ( _“I’m not picky for no reason, Patrick.” “I just thought you were a snob.”_ ), and he learns how to compost - which he thought was pretty gross at first, but it’s starting to grow on him.

Patrick introduces Jonny to trashy television. They cradle their homecooked meals in their laps while Patrick hurriedly explains the convoluted storylines of every reality competition show and Jonny listens raptly. It isn’t long before they’re arguing over who’s going to be the next Masterchef Junior champion.

They make time for hockey. Seabs and Sharpy join them on the ice more often, now, and they can even play some 2 on 2. Seabs plays for some local league and invites a few of his friends in - they’re a little starstruck at first, but it only takes a few practices for them to start hurling chirps their way. Jonny enjoys it more than Patrick does.

They bicker. Sometimes Jonny slams his door shut and Patrick pouts in his room until one of them breaks the silence with a text or by making breakfast the next morning. Even after a few months, Patrick still tiptoes around him sometimes and Jonny still hasn’t decorated his room. They have fun, but Patrick is worried that’s all they’ll ever be.

They make out sometimes. Especially on the couch, stomachs full of dinner, all lazy and comfortable. It never escalates far - there’s one night that Patrick is particularly fond of remembering that included a lot of grinding and hickeys. It was the first night Patrick had made Jonny come, and he’ll never forget it. The way Jonny had tensed up on top of him and moaned right into his neck has a permanent spot in Patrick’s spank bank.

It never goes much further than that, though. Jonny never sleeps in Patrick’s bed, even if they make out in there, and he never lets Patrick stay in his room, even when Patrick bakes him a gluten-free fruit pie with agave syrup instead of sugar and vegan honey butter in the crust. Patrick gives Jonny his space, though, despite how much he’d like it if Jonny slipped back into his room one night and curled up beside him.

It’s six months in when Patrick knocks softly on Jonny’s door in the late afternoon. He hears Jonny rustling around for a minute before poking his head out at Patrick. “Oh, hey.”

“Hey,” Patrick starts, idly scratching the back of his head. “Hey, so. There’s something I want to show you.”

“Actually,” Jonny interrupts, “there’s something I want to show you first. It won’t take long.”

Pat pauses. This is not how the plan was supposed to go, they’re kind of on a time crunch here. But Jonny looks earnest and nervous as he invites Patrick into the room, so Patrick has no choice but to join him. Jonny ushers him over to the bed and has him sit while he procures a leatherbound book that looks at least twenty years old.

“This is my journal,” Jonny starts, prying the book open and leafing through some of the pages. Patrick can see the handwriting transitioning from the big and loopy scrawling of a child to the small, looped handwriting Patrick has grown accustomed to. Jonny has clearly written in this thing for years.

Jonny turns to a page long before the end and takes a deep breath. Patrick feels a sudden spike of nerves, unsure as to where this whole thing is going. Jonny shakes his head like he’s working up courage, and then gives Patrick an unsure smile.

“So, this is from when I was sixteen,” Jonny says, and clears his throat.

_2005_

_The prince got into trouble again. Something about marijuana or a bong or something. They kept playing clips of his apology on MTV and mother had to tell me to turn it off because I was watching for too long. I think he looked sorry. I just wish people believed him more._

Pat bites his bottom lip as Jonny turns to a new page.

_2006_

_Got into an argument with David today about Prince Kane. He thinks that Prince Kane will be an unfit leader when he comes of age. But he’s just repeating what he hears at school. I can tell the Prince is good. He’s just a teenager. Plus, it’ll depend on who he marries. I hope it’s not that girl he’s been seeing lately. Mother likes her._

“Jon,” Patrick starts, but Jonny’s already launching into the next one.

_2012_

_I’m being pressured to find a suitable match. No one feels right. I don’t even know if marriage is the right thing for me. I’m wondering when the Kanes will begin their suitor search. I know I shouldn’t be thinking about that kind of thing anymore. But if I wait until then, maybe I’ll feel more ready._

“Jonny, stop,” Patrick says. He puts his hand on Jonny’s forearm and squeezes until Jonny looks up at him. “I get what you’re doing.”

The look in Jonny’s eyes is something like awe mixed with sadness and Patrick can’t stand to look at it too long. “Even when I was a kid,” Jonny says, “I had this faith in you that you were a good person.”

“I wasn’t that good,” Patrick mumbles.

“But you are good,” Jonny says vehemently. “And I knew it then, but somewhere along the line, somewhere growing up, I lost that trust.”

“Couldn’t have been when I insulted you to your face or anything like that,” Patrick says, dripping with sarcasm. But Jonny socks him in the shoulder.

“I’m being serious, Patrick.” He sighs. “I’m sorry for how suspiciously I’ve been treating you. I want to go back to being that kid again, the one who believed in you no matter what.”

Patrick shakes his head slowly. “It’s not your fault, man,” he says, tightening his grip on Jonny’s forearm. “I made a shitty first impression, okay? I’m trying to make up for it.”

Jonny’s finally smiling, although it’s something a little vague and watery. “You’ve more than made up for it,” he promises.

Pat leans in and kisses the side of Jonny’s mouth, just something comforting to let him know he’s still there. “You were pretty obsessed with me, though,” he murmurs, and Jonny does that laugh where his nose scrunches up and shoves a little at Patrick’s shoulders.

“I skipped the more humiliating entries,” he admits. Patrick gapes at him.

“We have to read them. All of them.”

“No fucking way, Patrick. No way. Stop it! Get off me!”

“Gimme it. Ooh, what’s this one-”

“Patrick, I will fucking kill you-”

“Dear Diary-”

“It’s a _journal_ -”

“Today I saw Patrick on TV and swooned for three straight hours-”

“I did not write that, give it back!”

“-and then cried over his tremendous beauty-”

“I’m calling Seabs to come kick your ass.”

The ensuing wrestling match is cut short, however, as Patrick remembers there’s actually somewhere they’re supposed to be. He wriggles out of Jonny’s grip and gives him the journal back.

“Tell you what: I solemnly swear to never read your diary if you come with me right now.”

Jonny peers at him. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch, buddy. Just a little country trip.”

Jonny puts the journal in his bedside table and stands. “Okay. Lead the way.”

///

An hour later, the town car finally comes to a stop.

Jonny’s peering out the window dubiously, his hand folded over Patrick’s. He’d been absently rubbing his thumbs over Patrick’s knuckles for almost the entire ride, trying to get Pat to admit where they were going. It was undeniably a turn on.

“Where are we?” Jonny asks for the millionth time, but Patrick just gestures for him to get out of the car. Jonny glares at him but follows the instruction, clambering out of the back seat and stretching as soon as his feet hit the ground.

Patrick follows him after a second and slides up behind Jonny, wrapping his arms around Jonny’s middle and tucking his chin up on his shoulder. Jonny rests his hands on Patrick’s wrist, looking forward over the rolling hill in front of them.

“Where are we?” He asks again.

Ahead of them, a grassy hill dips low to reveal a long stretch of lush green trees, lined up neatly in rows, leaves gently swaying in the afternoon wind. Behind it, squares of tilled dirt are dotted with colorful sprouts of vegetables.

“It’s a grove,” Patrick says, “and it’s yours.”

“A grove?” Jonny repeats. His eyes still haven’t stopped flicking all over, taking in the whole sight. “What?”

“It’s self-sustaining,” Patrick explains. “Orchard up front - vegetable farm behind it, see?”

Jonny is silent for a moment. “You bought me a farm?”

“I built you a farm,” Pat corrects, untangling himself from Jonny so that he can meet his disbelieving eyes. “Well, not me, but that group of inner city kids you were working with on the healthy lunch initiative. And some professionals, I guess.”

“Patrick,” Jonny starts, his tone unreadable.

“It’s for your foundation, Jonny,” Patrick says. He’s starting to get a little bit nervous. “You can use this land to start - um, what’s it called - community supported agriculture. And then the schools can buy vegetables for cheaper, y’know.”

Jonny reaches out very slowly and encircles Patrick’s wrist with his fingers. He very gently tugs Patrick forward until he hits Jonny’s chest, and puts his other hand on the back of Patrick’s head.

“I can’t believe you did this for me,” Jonny says reverently. “After how difficult I was with you.”

Patrick thumps Jonny’s chest lightly. “I had a lot to make up for. Not just with you, but, like. Yeah.”

“How did you pull all this off?” Jonny asks. Patrick grins and pushes Jonny back at arm’s length.

“Dude, it was mission: impossible,” he says. “You are impossible to lie to, you almost caught me every time. And once one of the farmers accidentally told a reporter that I was behind getting all this started up, but no one believed him. Which kind of sucks, now that I think about it.”

Jonny kisses him, firm and sure, squeezing Patrick’s upper arms. When he pulls away, he’s shaking his head. “This is insane.”

“It’s got drip irrigation,” Patrick says. “That saves water.”

“That’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said,” Jonny says mirthfully. Patrick laughs, too, and pats Jonny’s shoulder.

“Come on, man. Time to introduce you to the land.”

“Hey,” Jonny says softly. “Seriously, Patrick. Thank you.”

“Nah,” Pat says, “thank you. This is the first time I’ve done, like, anything, and it’s because of you.” He shrugs a little. “I might actually live up to some expectations someday.”

“You’ve exceeded mine,” Jonny says earnestly. He takes a deep breath. “I might fall in love you after all.”

“Don’t get all mushy on me just because I bought you some apples,” Patrick chides, and Jonny makes a face at him. “All right, Jonny. You’d better fall in love with me, because you have to some catching up to do.”

Jonny just watches him for a moment, like Patrick might turn and run or blip out of existence. “Can I sleep in your room tonight?” He asks directly. Patrick can’t help but laugh.

/// 

 

_**Royal Family Celebrates two-year anniversary of Kane-Toews union** _

_Almost two years have passed since the joining of the Kane and Toews families, and the country’s hottest royal couple continues to charm their constituents. Though rumors placed the first few months of their marriage - specifically, the accusation that the pair hardly liked one another - it’s become increasingly clear that this isn’t some marriage of convenience._

_Between starting the Kane-Toews Community Agriculture Share - one of Toews’ longtime passions - and founding Skate! - a multi-level charity geared toward getting underprivileged youth into a pair of hockey skates and on the ice - it seems as if our rebellious Prince finally found someone to ground him._

_But if you ask Prince Toews himself, he dismisses such a narrative._

_“Patrick is a thoughtful, dedicated, and intelligent person,” Toews said last week. “Being with me didn’t influence any of those things. He’s always been that way.”_

_Prince Kane has a different idea. At a press event for Skate! yesterday, he read Toews’ statement and gave a chuckle._

_“Jonny just doesn’t want people think he’s all serious and boring,” Kane said, balancing precariously on his skates. “But he is. Don’t tell him I said that.”_

_This kind of flirting is commonplace between them._

_No matter what your thoughts on their relationship, it’s difficult to deny that these two are a powerhouse in the political world. Beyond the extensive charity work, Prince Kane has been vocal about reducing the national debt and increasing trade with other nations. Toews, on the other hand, focuses on championing the lower class and improving education._

_Our royal family has never been shy to turn heads, but the prospect of a future under the Kane-Toews union instills confidence in the people of the nation._

_“We don’t plan on quieting down any time soon,” Toews said. Prince Kane rewarded him with a kiss._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so much fun to write! Thank you for all the patience you all had with me in getting this part posted. Thanks as always to [kaneoodle](https://kaneoodle.tumblr.com) for her excellent beta skills, and thank you to [Katie](https://toewsharp.tumblr.com) for giving me an amazing prompt. I hope you all enjoyed <3

**Author's Note:**

> Please join me on [tumblr](http://hatrickane.tumblr.com)!


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